LOC

LOC.
It was a porous time. Even if we had several declared and undeclared wars, still the rigidity was typically flexible. Cattle crossed the other side just like the fragrance of the blooming tree or the water of the many small feeders of either side. We perfectly knew when to fire a bullet or when to fire and exchange cigarettes. The limed tobacco changed hands, as did the Varatmataki jai versus Pakistan Zindabad. Therefore, the time was more porous than the line of control. So was the time through the no dispute boundaries. Suddenly things changed and war broke out. I got the telegram calling me back to duty, on the fifth day of my marriage before I spent only less than half a day to know my wife Chandni; it was an arranged marriage. Who on those days might fall in love with a jawan of uncertain future and where was the time. 
I was only eighteen when I aimed financial independence. My matriculation pass athletic body and the services needed each other. I joined Indian army in an ITI level course in automobiles. My village and area had little defense literacy; hence, it took five years for my parents, to find willing family of a bride. It was my wish to marry, that my mother could read from my inner being. I was twenty-three then and passed diploma in automobiles. I had the chance to enter the JCO rank within years. My annual and casual leaves for all these five years I spent only in search of finding a match for nuptial knot.

Fortunes knocked at my door, I got promoted and found a beautiful Chandni as my bride. Chandni's distance relations were in services. Her parents were happily willing..

It is difficult to understand the situation now. Every small village has people who work in defense. For long years, I was alone in our area serving in army. People discussed the benefits I got, appreciated my skill, wanted to learn fitness workouts from me but never joined in military services.

There was no telephone or Email system, so I got the telegram to rush back to my headquarters on war emergency. 
That was a tremendously different atmosphere of high emotion, inexpressible. I leave it up to anyone's imagination. Nevertheless, one thing I want to share that my parents-in-law promptly arranged my return journey not showing a pinch of negative emotion. My wife, I did not know from where she got the idea, brought the vermilion painted to the central pillar of our big thatched house, worshipped as deity. She put it as Tilak to my fore head, also to her bangles and forehead that still wore traces of her bridal make up, flanked with live mehendi patterns.
I returned back duty bound with professional motivation integrated to me as it was to any other man on uniform. As my train passed through the vast countryside of our motherland, woods passed through, cattle grazed, farmers worked in their fields safe, many hues of life and beauty walked as usual. The train crossed the rivers, the rivers saw off the train. The déjà-vu of my first travel at eighteen returned. I felt as if every inch of my country and every man or animal of my land expected me to be a savior. I wished my mother and my Chandni safe. There was not a grain of doubt on our ability and capability. The train passed by, the train rushed closer to destination, the train kept drifting away me from Chandni the woman I knew only for less than half a day. The woman I promised to give company for next seven births.
I was deployed to a particular area in the hilly borders of northwestern Panjab, which was far away from the actual war zone. However, the atmosphere there too was equal to war. Our workshop remained busy round the clock. Tanks, artilleries, all kinds of vehicles and machineries entered and exited in perfect to work condition. Work, work and work. Our people also accompanied the team going to LOC. I too did it several times. There were occasional exchange of fires. Casualties or captures were minimal. I had seen vehicles blown, it even happened to one of my training mate. Still everyone talked it to be away from war zone!
Course changed, ceasefire declared.

Course changed cease fire declared, we breathed, we  breathed the essence of spring, the picturesque spring that the land was deep into, we forgot to recognize hither to, engrossed otherwise in work. The spring was as beautiful as the letter I received from Chandni. She had not become that familiar to write as a wife in proper, she knew me for less than twelve hours in our promised long journey together. That did not matter. I saw her on the pages of her beautiful handwriting. She spoke me as the spring did. 
I begged leave that was rejected; a ceasefire was not the end of the war. Nevertheless, it was. We heard the peace pact signed. We believed we own the war. I believed Chandni was only at a week's distance. Weeks passed, so did the spring. Time started being porous. Cattle crossed the fence. We were given more liberty. Very soon, we had to return. We were into summer. A victory dinner arranged. We enjoyed. Still we had to stay alert.
However, people became more lenient, we moved here and there in daytime and in evening within the geographical permissibility granted by wild animals, not by our human enemies.
One afternoon I moved alone, unnoticed by anyone. There was a natural lake trapped within the crater created by big walls of hill all around. The name was Bhimtal. Might be it was full moon day or the day before. The transition between the sunset and moonrise only magnified the beauty in which I got lost. I was still as a yogi, I did not fear the animals sipping their last drinks of the day before returning to their den. I was in civil dress. A man came and sat by my side, an unknown man looked as civil as I did. It was not possible to know everyone. He was in infantry, so I accepted him stronger and braver. We exchanged our wishes. 
Did you reach here with permission? Like me, he did not. The nature attracted him just as it did to me. Rationality lost meaning with the magnificent call of the natural beauty.  Soon we became familiar as if known since long. He came from Punjab, clean saved; his name was Jeet Saraf, looked like the son of Hari Saraf my villager. He believed the win matched his name. We laughed. 
His story was more thrilling and distressing than me. He was also called back from his leave while attending his mother in the central cancer hospital in capital. His mother was counting days as his three dependent sisters waited. His father ran an auto rickshaw in the capital, mostly took children to school. One of the child's father was a cancer doctor caring his mother. He assured all care as he returned to duty. All loved country's soldier. He knew his mother counted days, not her motherland. He held his breath and told, his mother died and he knew it after a week. There was no chance to return to her last rites. He did not repent. He believed his presence would not save his mother. He was happy. His presence saved motherland. He told nonstop hiding his inner self. I believed him. My inner self connected his and could sense his deeper tragedy too. We were professional jawans but we also belonged to the civilians. We both were in civil dresses. He sympathized for my parents and for my Chandni. I did not find words to give back to him. I imagined my mother I felt helpless for his mother no more. The motherland was our mother. All mothers of the motherland were your mother. My mother I imagined as his mother. My Chandni I imagined as his mother. I presumed we Jawans had more mothers in the death of our mother. I felt all these, I had not the courage to utter. I embraced him, as did he. He reminded, it was too late and our camp mates might be worried. We returned southward climbing down the trail. At a lower point, suddenly he shifted to right as I shifted to left that was westward and eastward respectively. 
Almost simultaneously, we cautioned each other not to step into enemies land. No, we both were correct. He moved towards his Punjab of Pakistan and I moved to my Punjab of India, the two Punjabs of the world. The one Panjab of Ranjit Singhji slashed into two pieces. The capital her mother was treated was Lahore not Amritsar. Suddenly I sensed surge of hot blood inside my brain. The name Jeet Saraf could be so deceptive as my name Himat Buxipatra. I had no weapon with me. He too had none. I knew I was an automobile engineer but he was stronger as an infantry fighter. Still I lifted a log of wood to kill him, as did he. He came back roaring with a big stone. My log was heave enough to kill him. However, suddenly I saw my mother in between us, who told me not to attack her other son. I was not sure why did not he attack me as I dropped down my weapon. He threw away the stone and embraced me. We promised nothing happened and we never met each other. The echo of our shout did not reach my camp.
This I had narrated only to my mother as a deep secret. 
Many decades have passed; there is no harm to share my experience now. We do our duty assigned not anything personally. No human rights violation is acceptable against a duty bound state element. If they did, we should apply force.